Baylen chuckled. “There are always two reasons we do anything, Paedrin. The real reason and the one that sounds good to everyone else.”
“Well, since you can’t return to Kenatos when this is finished—though I see no reason you won’t be able to, since we will defeat the Plague and we will overthrow the Arch-Rike—you can visit Shatalin whenever you choose. It will take some time to get the temple ready for students. But you are welcome to be part of that family regardless. The strongest bonds come from families—those we are born into and those we choose.”
The keening wind was growing even louder. “It sounds like someone is crying,” Paedrin observed, more loudly. “It’s almost human.”
“It is not human,” Khiara said in a warning voice. With his new sight, Paedrin saw her stand across the other side of the tent.
“Are we missing anyone?” Tyrus demanded. “Did everyone come inside?”
Paedrin glanced around, quickly accounting for everyone. “We are all here, Tyrus, even the drovers.”
“The sound is coming from a beast . . . I can hear it,” Khiara said. “It’s been getting closer and louder. Sounds like no creature I have heard before.”
Quieting everyone with a hush, Paedrin listened to the sound of the wind and sure enough he could discern a howling sound. It was like the yowling of a cat, though much deeper, and caused a chill through his heart.
“I hear it,” Paedrin said.
“So do I,” Prince Aran added.
“Do you want me to go out there and kill it?” Kiranrao grumbled from behind another stack of goods. “It may draw others toward us.”
“Stay inside,” Tyrus said, dropping his voice to a hush. “Draw near me. The storm blinds it. Be still.”
The sound of the creature was now loud enough for all of them to hear it. It cut through the moaning wind that lashed at the taut ropes and canvas. It pierced the darkness, defying them to describe the creature by its howl alone.
“What kind of beast is it, Tyrus?” Paedrin asked.
“Hush,” Tyrus snapped.
The drovers started to moan with fear. They were beginning to understand the danger, that they were much closer to the Scourgelands than they had perceived. “Away . . . we must away,” one of them babbled.
“Makapenrinee,” whispered another drover, his eyes widening with recognition.
Light filled the tent as Tyrus’s hands glowed blue with flames.
“The scars of others should teach us caution.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XIV
Do you sense it? Annon asked Nizeera, reaching out and plunging his fingers into her fur. He did not want to reach out to it with his talisman, for fear of attracting the creature to them. What creature is it?
It is a Vecser, came her response. They are vicious hunters and can smell blood and flesh. It is blind to us because of the storm. They hunt in packs.
As if to reinforce her thoughts, the sound of another came, even farther away. The first was drawing near to the tent and they could hear the crunch of the sand as it approached.
Tyrus’s face had a grayish cast in the flame light of his fingers, his eyes fixed on the tent door. Were their enemies already prowling the borders of the Scourgelands, seeking them? Would they even be able to approach the woods unseen?
A thought came to Annon’s mind—a quick memory of his time in Basilides. He wore an iron torc around his neck, a device imbued with magic that had banished the serpents inside the lair. It repelled any animal, including his friend. Nizeera felt his thoughts and her hackles rose, her ears flattening, and she hissed at him.
Annon reached out and took Tyrus’s wrist to get his attention without speaking. He motioned to the torc around his neck, offering it as an alternative to using the fireblood so soon. Tyrus examined his gesture and then nodded curtly.
Closing his eyes, Annon withdrew inside himself and uttered the word in his mind that activated the torc—Iddawc. The torc had jewels embedded into each end and he felt their warmth begin to flush his neck as they responded to the thought. Waves of mental blackness extended from him, and Nizeera squirmed away, her mind repulsed by the fear emanating from the torc. She skulked in the corner of the tent, as far away from him as she could, hackles raised.
The screeching sound of the beast outside changed instantly. The baying stopped. The ferocity of the sandstorm increased, but not because of the magic the Druidecht wore around his neck. He felt the twin orbs pulsing against his skin, becoming unbearably hot. Annon mastered the pain, determined to keep the dark creature at bay. He clenched his fists and hugged himself, exerting his mind to endure the heat. Sweat trickled down his face with the effort. He did not like the black shroud preventing him from feeling Nizeera’s thoughts.
After several long moments, Tyrus signaled for him to stop. He gratefully relinquished control of the magic and the stones began to cool instantly. The shroud passed away and he felt Nizeera’s mind again, quavering with fear and anger that he had summoned its power.